


Without Fault or Flaw

by longwhitecoats



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Disabled Character, Disabled Character of Color, M/M, PTSD, The Night Court, Worldbuilding, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 04:04:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13138692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longwhitecoats/pseuds/longwhitecoats
Summary: A visit to the Night Court, after the war. Set during the first trilogy.





	Without Fault or Flaw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RobberBaroness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobberBaroness/gifts).



There are always men coming back from war, they tell me. Always men like me, to be honored and then tidied up. We are tucked into little cottages and crofts away from the cities, away from eyes, where they can imagine us permanently laureled, permanently frozen and still.

I did not take my retirement on my family’s lands, distant from the City of Elua, from all I had ever known. I was still a young man. I could still write, and speak, and sing, although such things left me fatigued, now. With the help of my cane, a plain but sturdy thing, I could even make calls in the City to see my old friends, and most of them welcomed me. I had no sweetheart to return to, but I had had a life; and I crawled back into it as best I could, filling it with what remained of me.

In such a way I passed the time after the war, making my little living as a writer and performer, though I accepted fewer commissions than I had before. I did not think myself poor. I lived in a spare room belonging to a friend, and I had enough to eat and to repair my specially made boots.

But one evening, shortly after the Longest Night, which I had spent alone worrying over an old translation from Akkadian, my friend strode into my room and said, “For Elua’s sake, Marciel, if you don’t leave this room you’re going to grow roots into the floorboards.”

I put down my quill and the empty scroll I’d been staring at for an hour. “Jean-Pierre,” I said. “I’m quite certain I left the house a fortnight ago.”

“My point exactly,” Jean-Pierre retorted, sighing and dropping himself into an armchair. “The door is just there, Marciel. There’s a whole world on the other side. Come. What good does it do to sit here with these old papers? You’re alive. Live a little, my friend. Let’s go gambling like we used to, or drinking by the river.”

I felt my lips twitch in an unwilling smile. Jean-Pierre had always been made of wilder stuff than I, but truth to tell, I did miss our old adventures somewhat. “You’re very kind, my friend,” I said, “but I need money more than I did when I was young, and drink is a great provoker of tears for one like me.”

Jean-Pierre growled. “You _are_ obstinate,” he said. Then he tilted his head. “What of the Night Court?” he said. “When was the last time you used your money in worship of Namaah?”

My face must have betrayed my shock, for Jean-Pierre put up a hand to forstall objections. “Don’t overthink the question, Marciel, and don’t pretend that you’ve been entertaining guests here without my knowing. How long has it been? With you it was never more than a few days at most between lovers. And now?”

I lowered my eyes. “Since before,” I said. “Since before I went away. Almost two years.”

He whistled. “Marciel,” he said, “that is too long for someone like you.”

I shook my head. How could I make him understand? I felt ashamed of myself, ashamed to let anyone look at me. And that was only the damage visible to the eye. How could I give myself to another, feeling what I felt – the pain in every joint that made the service of Namaah impossible? The dreams and fears which prevented any connection with a lover as surely as if a portcullis had been dropped before the gates of my heart?

“I can’t,” I said. “Jean-Pierre, I simply can’t.”

But Jean-Pierre was a very old friend, and he knew me well. “I suspect you can if you want to, Marciel,” he said. “I would be glad to pay for an assignation. Consider it a gift.” He rose and went to the door. “You have only to ask. The offer will remain.”

He left, and I made no further progress on that empty scroll for the rest of that day and night. My thoughts were in a froth.

By morning, I had decided to accept.

*

“Delightful,” Jean-Pierre said, crunching his toast. “Delightful. I am positively afire with excitement. Now: which house will you choose? Which have you visited before? I know, neither Mandrake nor Valerian is for you; but the others?”

I smiled. Jean-Pierre did love to plan a night of proper festivity. I had no doubt he was already dreaming up the appropriate ensembles for each of us to wear on our escapade. “I used to visit Gentian, when I was younger,” I said. “I think that would not suit me now. There’s Dahlia, which I did not much care for. Bryony...” I hesitated. I had been an habitué of Bryony House for some time; I used to love their ruthless gaiety, their luxury. Now the idea left me cold, and I could not say why.

“You wish to return to Bryony?” Jean-Pierre said, helping himself to more eggs.

“No,” I said. “No, I think I need to try something new.”

To his credit, Jean-Pierre did not say the obvious thing, the unkind thing— _Balm, perhaps?_ —but simply nodded and munched away happily. He changed the subject.

*

I spent days pondering it. I did not wish to squander my friend’s gift, but I felt I no longer knew my own heart.

Walks through the City always used to clear my mind; they were slower now, and more painful, but I tried to make it up to myself by taking time to contemplate my surroundings. I admired the carvings on the temples I passed, their soft lines and enduring façades. I thought of Namaah.

Alyssum House said that Namaah trembled to lay aside her modesty; I, too, trembled. But the idea of seeing my own shame reflected back at me filled me with loathing. I shook my head. The streets became a blur about me as I lost myself in rumination. The idea of going to Balm House, the house of healing, felt self-pitying. I was still a scholar, a singer, a writer. I had no wish for my dedication to Namaah to be defined by my slow steps and terrible dreams. I had never sought the act of love as a balm before; I would not do so now.

Cereus? No; I had no need of a reminder that loveliness fades. Heliotrope had never held any fascination for me, and I felt I could not summon enough pleasure to appreciate the languor of Jasmine House. Orchis House was tempting; I had always taken great joy in the act of love; but it felt too risky, too nebulous. I needed this one night to be _perfect_.

I stopped in the street and looked up. I had walked all way to the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, and I stood underneath the edifice of the one house I had never considered.

House Camellia. Whose motto is “Without Fault or Flaw,” and whose canon is perfection.

I went inside.

*

Edmonde Noualt, the Dowayne of Camellia House, was summoned immediately and met me at the door. By the time he arrived, two adepts had already offered me a wheelchair and a mug of hot tea, both of which I accepted.

“Well met, messire,” he said, offering his hand and introducing himself. He was slighter and shorter than I expected, bird-boned, with skin much darker than my own. He radiated warmth and confidence.

“I am Marciel nó de Mornay,” I said. Edmonde’s eyebrows rose at that; not many knew that Thelesis de Mornay had an adopted son. I published under my first name only. I knew that she had not wanted her notoriety to become my own, but I was fiercely proud of her.

Something in the tone of my voice, or perhaps in my face, seemed to make Edmonde pensive, as if he had discovered something important about me. I knew that members of the Night Court were famously perceptive about their patrons, and I wondered what his revelation was.

“Please, come in,” he said. “How may we serve you?”

He showed me to a long parlor with an enormous window taking up the whole of one wall. It overlooked the courtyard, which now showed an expanse of unbroken white snow, dotted with bare tree limbs and crossed by a single stone path which had been swept perfectly clear.

We chatted first about the room, and then the weather; he never rushed me nor became overly familiar. I felt myself slowly unfold from my exertions, both physical and mental. At last, I admitted I was there to arrange an assignation.

Edmonde nodded. “Very good,” he said. “Some patrons prefer to select their own partners in advance of the meeting. It will take only a moment to arrange a selection now, if you wish.”

I sucked in a breath. I tried to imagine what would come of that—a long line of flawless, upright bodies. Even the thought was so intimidating that I nearly left then and there. Instead, I shook my head. “No,” I said. “That is—I would prefer to be chosen than to choose.” I realized what I’d said after I said it, heard how I sounded, but it was true, and I had never been ashamed to tell the truth. It was my gift. So I held my tongue and let the words hang in the air.

But Edmonde seemed not at all surprised; in fact, the corners of his eyes crinkled in apparent amusement. “It would be our pleasure,” he said, sipping from his tea. It was only then that I noticed the cup. I was astonished by my own obliviousness; it had felt so natural. He had been drinking tea throughout our meeting so that I would not feel uncomfortable drinking my own. “You wish to leave all the arrangements to us, then?”

I smiled. “I believe I will be in good hands.”

We settled the few remaining details, and Edmonde walked with me around a long interior colonnade in order to make my exit. I suspected I was being watched, but I had no evidence beyond a prickling at the back of my neck to confirm it. When I departed, a carriage was waiting for me at the door. The driver took no payment when she left me at my house, and I noticed the creeping tendrils of an almost-finished marque at the collar of her coat.

*

The night of my assignation, Camellia House sent another carriage, and Jean-Pierre rode with me up the hill to the Court. Ostensibly, he came because he was curious to see Camellia House, but in fact—as we both knew—it was to settle my nerves. I was also glad not to have to walk; the journey would likely have fatigued me too much to be capable of anything else when I arrived.

“I’ll wait for you if you like,” Jean-Pierre said cheerfully. “I won’t even wander off into another room with one of their adepts. I’ll stay right in the front hall, drinking tea and thinking devout thoughts.”

I laughed. “You’ll do no such thing. Please, at least one of us should be sure of having a good time. Wander off as much as you like. They’ll see me home.”

This time, as the adepts greeted us with punctilious courtesy, I could not help but wonder if one of them was my intended. Was it the delicate boy bringing a wheelchair? The well-muscled girl carrying a tray with glasses of _joie_ and of water? Their bodies no longer seemed frightening to me; I seemed to be seeing them all for the first time.

And what bodies they were. I had expected a row of icy statues, all of a height, perhaps even all of a color, bedecked and unmoving. Instead, Camellia House was a panoply of motion and variation: this winter evening, the halls teemed with adepts, some engaged with patrons and some seemingly entertaining one another. Quiet laughter and the tinkling of crystal rang through the foyer, and I even fancied I could hear the sounds of more sensual pleasures filtering from rooms beyond. Adepts of every imaginable physique were arrayed in every hall and sitting-room. I watched a voluptuously fat woman lead her giggling patron up a flight of stairs, and I turned back to Jean-Pierre in time to see him blush with sudden desire.

“I’m sure they have others like her,” I said, teasing. “You have only to ask.”

“I well may,” Jean-Pierre replied, his hands sliding half-consciously over his own paunch.

I intended to give a rejoinder, but Edmonde arrived then, greeting me with another handshake and introducing himself to Jean-Pierre. I wondered for a moment if he himself had chosen to take me on, but something in his manner suggested otherwise.

I saw Jean-Pierre give me one final concerned glance, and I waved him away. Edmonde’s presence had replenished my feeling of surety once more. I was in the right place.

“Marciel, may I escort you?” He held out a hand to point the way, and I went.

The room was down a short hall, on the ground floor; even had I been on foot, I would have been glad not to have to walk up any stairs. Inside was a low bed, with a wide doorway to a privy chamber beyond, and a heavy bench bearing ewers of drink, a teapot, and trays of fruit.

There was also another person in the room, also using a wheelchair.

“I have the great pleasure of introducing you to Renée, whose marque will be completed thanks to you. We will miss him very much.” He nodded at the young adept.

“Enchanted,” he said, and stretched out a hand to me.

I took it, not knowing what to say. Instead of shaking my hand, he bent his neck and kissed the tips of my fingers. I blushed, surprised by the gesture; when I looked up, Edmonde had vanished.

“There’s a bell, if you want to ring for anything,” Renée said. “It’s lovely to meet you. Would you like something to drink?” He went to the bench and poured a glass of water, which he then sipped. “A lot of people like to start with _joie_ , but I prefer to stay alert. All my senses about me.” He winked puckishly. I wanted to be nervous, almost wanted to be shocked, but his casual friendliness slipped right past my guard.

“Thank you,” I said. “Just water, please.” He poured and handed it to me, grinning when our fingers touched. “I must say, I didn’t expect you to be so—”

“Like you?” he said.

“—Cheeky, is actually what I was going to say,” I finished. “But in all honesty, yes, that too.”

He laughed. “I almost went to Orchis House,” he said. “They offered to accept me. But I liked the people here. Edmonde has been Dowayne since I arrived. And I made friends quickly. I’m far from the only adept here who’s like us.”

Like _us_. The word rang in my ears. Renée was not much younger than I, but nevertheless he was too young to have been a soldier; he did not mean that. _Us_ meant those of us whose bones and joints ache, who use wheelchairs, who are tired more quickly than others, who are sick and will always remain so. The idea that there was an _us_ to be part of made my heart beat faster.

“This isn’t quite what I expected from Camellia House,” I said, and then regretted it. But Renée seemed to take no offense.

“What is perfection?” Renée said. “Is it a certain height? A certain curve of the lip? A turn of the leg?” At this, we shared a knowing smile.

“Perhaps perfection lies not in the body, but in the heart,” I ventured, sipping my water.

Renée shook his head. “Ah, but then, whose is the perfect heart? No one is perfectly good, perfectly loving; and to practice the illusion of inward perfection while ignoring its practice is to become slowly rotten.”

“All right. A proper philosophical argument. You make me feel like I’m back at university.” And flirting after a lecture, I didn’t say, but it gave me a warm feeling in my chest.

“What would your professors say?”

I considered. “Practice, then. You said _practice_. Perhaps it is neither in our bodies nor our hearts that perfection resides, but in our actions.”

Renée nodded, already opening his mouth to object. His mind was so _quick_. “Spoken like a true soldier, Marciel. Perfect duty, perfect service. But can any service be perfect? Even if the action is performed perfectly, one day that service must end. No one can perform that perfect service forever.”

I felt my face grow hot. “You don’t know,” I said. “You weren’t there.”

But Renée simply shrugged. “I wasn’t,” he said. “But aren’t you here now?”

For a moment, I held my breath, angrier than I had been in a long while; and then, looking again at Renée’s sweet face, I let it out. With it, something thorny seemed to leave my breast, and I felt a strange open space near my heart.

“Yes,” I conceded. “I am. You’re right.” I couldn’t quite make myself say what he was right about—that all service must end, that even the practice of service cannot be perfect—but I did not need to. The air in the room had shifted, and we both felt it.

Renée moved closer. “We are taught,” he said softly, “that perfection is always personal. It can only be found through truth,” and here he learned forward to kiss my cheek, “and love.” He bent his lips toward mine.

I met him in a gentle kiss, and then a second; when at last we broke apart, I felt a curious charge all over, a sensation I had not felt for a long time, if ever. “Love,” I said. “The illusion of love? This is not Heliotrope House.”

“It’s not an illusion,” Renée said. “And I did not say it was a romantic love.” He kissed me again, his passion perhaps giving a lie to his words. It certainly felt romantic. It felt loving.

I stroked his cheek. “Can we use the bed?” I asked.

He nodded. “I can move a bit. Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll join you.”

When we had arranged ourselves on the bed and finished the lengthy, careful process of removing our clothes, I allowed myself more time to look at Renée. He was brown, like me; like me, he was scarred, although apparently from illness rather than battle. His limbs were very thin, almost entirely unmuscled. He smiled easily and lopsidedly, a bit wickedly.

He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.

“May I touch you?” he said, and I gave assent.

We moved slowly closer, touching and caressing, exploring each other’s sensitivities. More than once, we paused to put more pillows under my knees; Renée, who had done this many times before, knew to start with a long pillow under his side to relieve his back. He gasped when I put my hands between his legs, and laughed with joy when I whispered how beautiful he was.

He stretched out his hand also to touch me, and we simply rocked together for a long time, murmuring sweet nothings. A soft fog seemed to embrace us; I felt no urgency, no fear, only the pleasure of giving Renée pleasure, only the joy of being touched, being known. I realized I had begun to speak in verse, a few lines I’d written long ago:

> _do you feel the tread of my feet_  
>  _in the soft earth of your heart?  
>  _ _will you let me walk in your grass  
>  _ _and gather your midnight flowers?_

Renée chuckled, his eyes still closed. “That was a favorite of mine,” he said. “Never could memorize it quite right.”

I kissed him. “A favorite?” I said. “So you were star-struck, is that it?”

“A bit,” he said, panting as I moved my hand. “It’s more that— _ah—_ I knew I would like you.”

“And do you?” I said. “Now that we’ve met?”

He opened his eyes.

“Very much, Marciel,” he said. “Yes. Yes.”

When we were spent, we lay for a while on the bed; Renée asked if I would mind having someone there to assist us with food and clothes, and I assented. He had hardly rung the bell when two adepts came in, smiling at Renée as if he had won a bet.

“None of your commentary, Yvonne,” Renée said to the taller of the two. “We just want something nice to eat and to be comfortably dressed.”

Yvonne giggled, but she was as good as she ought to be and said nothing; and their easy manner with each other put me at ease too.

We ate the whole tray of fruit and a hot meal of stew and warm bread, and then we sat drinking tea and chatting about poetry until I began to yawn.

“They’ll have a carriage for you,” Renée said. “Or you can sleep here, if you like.”

It was tempting, but I knew I’d never sleep if I were still with Renée, and I suspected he wouldn’t either. “Thank you,” I said. “I wish I could. I think I’d better be going home.” I hesitated.

“Renée,” I said, “you must think me a fool for saying this—and of course all your patrons must say such things, but I—” I made myself look at him. He seemed to know what I was about to say; his lips were gathered tightly together, trying not to smile. “Once you have made your marque, I would like to be friends.” I did not add any other secret hopes; perhaps he could read them in my face.

But Renée took this confession with equanimity. “My patrons do all say such things,” he said. “But as it happens, I would like that very much.” Then he grinned. “I liked arguing with you.”

“And I with you.” I held out my hand. “Perfection lies in truth and love, you say?”

At this, Renée’s face became serious for the first time all evening. “Speak truth, now,” he said. “Do you like yourself a little more now than you did before?”

I paused. “I suppose—yes.”

“And do you think perhaps that’s because you like _me_?”

I looked at him again: not a mirror image of me, but not so very different. A bit handsomer, quite a bit thinner. Disabled by birth and illness rather than by violence. But—no, not so very different at all.

“Yes,” I said. “Perhaps it is.”

*

“How was it?” Jean-Pierre said when I came through the door. Snow clung to the end of my cane, and I batted it against the boot-stand. He looked well-mussed and happy, warm in his evening gown.

I looked up at him, an ease in my chest I hadn’t felt in ages. “Thank you, my friend,” I said. “It was perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for a wonderful prompt! I hope you like this treat. Many thanks to my beta, [Sasha_Feather](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_feather/pseuds/sasha_feather). 
> 
> Happy Yuletide!


End file.
